


The Sands of Time Have Fallen

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [48]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: A+ Parenting, Angst, F/M, Reunion Sex, Valinor, elf-marriages really are forever, forever is a long time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1962249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even for an elf, three thousand years is a long while to wait in Valinor for the one who said he would not be long coming to join you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sands of Time Have Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Waiting for the Miracle" by Leonard Cohen.

Another ship has been sighted.

They come, they tell me as though I should rejoice.

Still.

Every time.

As though I would be foolish enough to hope.

I gave up on hope long ago.

 

 

Why then, do I not fade? Why do I not leave this land, this Blessed Realm? Why not go to those Halls where there is one whom I long to be with again?

Because, and the answer shames me, because I have tarried here too long. To go now would be to make clear that he is my second choice. That I waited all this long while for another, that I go to him only now I do not believe my love will ever come.

Because were I to go and find myself rejected by him, turned away, my love belittled as his brother belittled my care, I do not think I would have the strength to hold my head high any longer. 

And without my pride – what am I?

Nothing.

 

 

Besides, elves do not fade here.

We do not die here.

And I hide from the memory of one who did. Brave, steadfast, determined.

Loyal.

Loving.

And where, I wonder, where did he learn that?

Not from his parents. Little use we were to him.

Poor little Leaf. How we hurt him, caught in a trap of our making, torn by the claws we meant for each other.

 

 

It is a small ship, they tell me. There can be only one or two on board. 

It is in the style of Ithilien.

As though this is news. For long now the ships have come from Ithilien. They seem to have – to be – I do not remember the trade-words dwarves use – they are the only land now that makes such elven ships. Much wealth it must bring them. I suppose their ruler must be wise.

I turn away from that thought, I do not wish to think of who rules those Silvans.

It must carry a Silvan, they say, but – Silvans do not travel alone. They are not made so. 

They look at me, as though they expect a response. As though I will leap, and run, and light up, and tremble with joy. 

Those days are long past.

Once, once I did indeed do so, at every ship. At every possible ship, I looked for signs, I told myself, this one. This one will bear my love to me.

I was wrong.

I have been wrong so many times, I find I cannot believe again.

 

 

Now they come again, the ship is closer, the elf on board sighted. His hair – they look at me as they say it – his hair is – neither Silvan red nor Noldor dark. They look at me. 

I shrug. Even if it is blond, as mine is, or pale, pale as the white gems I remember, what means it? There are Sindar and Galadhrim enough left in Arda.

I suppose it could be one of my sons, or my sons’ children.

I find I have little eagerness to see them. 

It saddens me, but – I find I have come to believe the words of a dwarf. Words his companion did not bother to deny. Words which none whom I have asked has been able to deny – nor to confirm, save by their lack of denial.

How can I take pleasure in my remaining sons, knowing of their cruelty to my little Leaf?

How can I long for my love, knowing he did not protect that wisp I left in his care?

 

 

This time it is the minstrel who comes.

Poor lad, I think, always it is Lindir who is left to bear unwelcome news. Idly, seeking distraction from whatever it is he has come to say, I wonder what he did, what errors he made, that his Lord treats him thus.

“My Lady,” he says, always so quiet, so polite, so gentle, “my Lady, they – the Lord Elrond bade me bring word to you. We have heard who was on the boat. Who is travelling across the land. Searching. The elf – it is your lord husband.”

I do not move.

“My Lady? Will you not go to him?”

I look at this singer,  
“After so many years? You think I should run?” I pause, looking at him, looking for once into the sad eyes of this singer, and I ask, “I suppose you remember how Celebrian welcomed your Lord, and think that is the way wives should be. That love should forgive all, should never fade, whatever the hurt? Is that how you would have your wife be?”

He looks at me, and meekly answers,  
“I have no wife. I will have no wife. You know this, my lady. But – yes. As I have always understood love, love forgives, love looks to comfort, to understand, to help heal the hurt, not make more. Love asks no reward.”

For an instant, I glimpse the truth of his life, but – he is little to me – I care not. 

“Yours perhaps, Noldor,” I say, “I am Sindar. We value our pride. Let my lord husband come to me, when he chooses. I will not have this reunion made a thing for all to see,” and I turn away, walking into the trees.

 

 

 

I know not where my husband goes, what he does, where he wanders. 

I find – I find that all I have for him are questions. And he has never been one to explain himself. Even – even when all was well – and oh, once all was well and better than well between us – but – even then – he was not one to enjoy the hours of self-explanation, of talk, of discussion of every tiny detail. In some ways, he was a most unelflike elf.

He used to sing. As any elf does. 

He used to comb.

And I wonder again, as I have wondered so often – with whom has he combed, with whom has he sung, these past – three thousand years and more.

For long, for long, I assumed he would be combing, singing with our sons, with their children. And I envied him that comfort, here alone as I was. Uncombed.

But the words of – of that elf who came here with his dwarven companion – of that elf who died to follow his love – that elf who could not survive alone, so deeply did he love – his words, and those of his dwarf – they made me wonder.

They spoke of a Thranduil I did not know. A cold, alone, proud, hard Elven-King. 

And when I asked those who might have known more – and hard it was to ask such a thing, such a question about my own husband – I received – answers which left me none the wiser. 

I heard of a great ruler. 

Of a land well-protected, safe within its borders. Strong borders, keeping the world away. Keeping the elves inside safe.

I heard of a King, loved by his people, feared by others.

An enigma.

One who attended no councils, asked for no help.

Needed none.

One who few had even met. And those who had – knew not if there were still a heart inside that cold shell.

I heard – and how glad she was to tell me – that part of the Forest had been given to the husband of the Lady Galadriel.

But – but then – I heard that after her departure, he had left, retreated to Imladris, and that land – I suppose it is ruled now by my sons, for they, it seems, left the Forest and became rulers in the land which was once hers. 

That pleased me.

But – why did they not stay in the Forest?

What has been happening among my sons?

Indeed, I have questions for Thranduil. 

I doubt he will wish to answer me.

 

 

I spend many hours, days, alone. 

As I have, this past Age, and more.

Celebrian comes to me. She smiles, so sweetly, and I think – this one is shaping up to be as interfering as her mother.

“Calenmiril, wife of Thranduil,” she begins, as though to remind me my place, and I raise my brow, noticing I am no longer Calenmiril of Eregion, but not wishing to give her the satisfaction of a response. “It will be a feast-day soon. My lord husband wishes you to know you are, as always, welcome to spend it with us, in our valley.”

“It is a Noldor feast,” I reply, “not one I would choose to celebrate.” Indeed, there are few feasts I wish to celebrate now. 

“You were not loathe to share it with us once before, when your estranged son was also present; we had thought, perhaps, as your estranged husband may be with us – but, be that as it may,” they always say that, these Noldor, so that you cannot retort, “know you are welcome. Your husband has not yet reached us here, I simply wished to ensure you knew that you will both be welcome. I am sure there will be no discourtesy between two such royal elves, even should you not wish to be together.”

I incline my head, and turn away. As I walk I hear her speak again, and stop to listen.

“Calenmiril,” she says, and for a moment, I hear her voice leave its schooled gentleness, and she sounds more like the elf I knew in those days when we both waited here for our husbands, when we both had hearts in need of healing, “Calenmiril, I – I too had a husband appear with many deeds done, perhaps not all wisely, but done in his name, by himself alone. I – I too lost a child to a mortal death, no elf expects their child to die. You – you were at least able to hold your son, to see him make that final choice, to know it was no choice at all for him. But – I decided that blaming Elrond would not change the past. Forgiving him, loving him, not even allowing him to know there is anything to forgive – it has given me a future.” She pauses, and I wonder if she is really expecting me to answer, then, “I only ask you to consider my words. If you will not make peace with your husband – what then will you do with the rest of your long, long, life?”

And I hear her leave, as I do indeed consider the seemingly endless years ahead.

 

 

In the end, as perhaps she knew I would, I find I cannot stay away. I go to this Noldor feast, as I have not been to one in all these years since – since that unknown son of mine was here, and this seemed the way to meet him. 

My husband is indeed here.

Approaching the tables, I remember that other night, how I looked at my last born son, how he reminded me of my Thalion still – and yet there was something different. He – he had not that youthful lack of confidence which shows itself in being over-loud. He – he clearly cared for only one person at that feast, and minded not who saw it. He had eyes only for the dwarf at his side – oh, he pretended a friendship with Lindir, he was courteous enough to any other that spoke to him, but – there was only one person in his world. 

It made me lonely just to see them.

I – we – knew that kind of love once.

And I wonder again, as I remember them, what our love would have been, how long it would have remained golden, had that fateful battle not destroyed all our hopes and dreams. 

Celebrian comes to greet me, and unobtrusively shows me to a seat from which I can see Thranduil, hear him, but – we are not too close. 

Throughout the meal, I observe him – I fear I am poor company for those I am seated near. He – he is not. He is – as he always was – a polished conversationalist, saying little, yet all of it worth hearing. None of it from the heart, every word a sparkling jewel of acerbic wit, a pointed dart of biting sarcasm.

He is – as he always was – very beautiful. But – it is the beauty of a tiger, of a shining rapier. There is no invitation to touch, to come closer.

There is no smile, no laughter in those cold eyes.

I know, and I wonder who else here knows, that he cannot see me. Not at this distance, not at this angle. Mannerisms he has, that to others may seem – odd – the fruit of years of self-imposed reclusiveness. But to me – to any who know – they speak of his lack of full vision, of his reliance on hearing, on thought, on memory, on touch. 

Of his refusal to let any help him. His insistence that he will be independent. 

I remember when first he was injured saying that he could not, he would need help at first, he could not expect there to be no change. I remember how he said that he would learn, he would find a way. And when I argued, said there was no shame in being wounded, in needing help, that it was not possible to ignore such injuries – he replied – “I am Thranduil. This I will do.” 

Oh my love. What more have you done to yourself? What more have you learnt to do without?

What have we done to each other?

My grief, my pain, and your – your pride, determination, belief in duty. They came together, and tore us apart. 

Not just – tore us one from the other – but – they tore each of us to pieces, I realise. 

And I do not know how we can ever heal.

 

 

The formal meal is over now, the official songs finished. Now, some begin to slip away – and I remember how those two slipped away before, with the ease of long practice, I remember how my son was so careful, so solicitous with that tired, old dwarf – and how he made it seem no more than a loving embrace, that arm which clearly took all the weight, which protected and guided. I thought – I assumed – he must have learnt that caring for his father. But – by the way he spoke – by the other words I have heard – and above all, by watching that father tonight in his physical isolation – I know now, he had not.

 

 

I sit here, toying with some fruit – and how the Noldor love their fruit, their salad, their boring, boring food – until there are many empty seats.

He is still sat there, there are still elves by him, talking, but – not many. None I know.

I go over, I will have speech with him, I will not leave this until the morrow – I made that mistake before, and the manners engendered by such a gathering were no longer on my side. 

I approach, and as I wonder how to open the conversation, I find I need not. He looks at me, and I realise he has been as aware of me, as I of him.

“My lady,” he says, and then turning towards these others, “is this not pleasant? See, my lady wife has decided she will join me for some small part of the evening. Do not let us detain you further, there will be little entertainment here.” 

And his raised eyebrow holds such command, they leave, instantly. I sit, and find I cannot help but acquiesce to his seeming mood,  
“Now, my lord,” I say, “is that any way to speak? Little entertainment? I believe there was a time when both you and I were renowned for our conversation. And, indeed, there was a time when you and I needed little conversation to make much entertainment for many – long evenings.”

For an instant, our eyes meet, and the heat that sparks is – as it ever was. Then – we both look away, and I am not sure whose eyes faltered first. He sighs, almost imperceptibly, but, I know him well.

“Indeed, my lady, there was such a time. Yet – I doubt now that it will come again, though – though Eru knows, I hoped it would.”

I open my mouth to continue the banter, to assure him my conversation is as it ever was – but – I stop. That – that was heartfelt. 

Instead, I ask the question I have felt burning me,  
“If so you hoped, why – why – oh Thranduil – why has it taken you _so fucking long_ to arrive?”

He grips his glass, and I wonder how much wine he has drunk this night – and whether it has been enough for honesty.

“In this at least,” he manages, “you have not changed. You still swear like – like our son’s dwarf,” he holds up one hand, “peace. Peace, my lady. We – we do need to have this conversation. With all the profanities you like. But – not where we will quickly become an after-dinner amusement for our hosts. I am no more fond than you – than you were – of Noldor or the saintly, ever-wise Lady of the Galadhrim.”

Ah. Now that is starting to sound truly honest. I rise, and take his still-outstretched hand, and smiling sweetly, say,  
“Then, my lord husband, my dear lord husband,” and I know he can hear the bite beneath the words, the sting in the sweetness, so well do we know each other still, “come, walk with me awhile, and perhaps beneath the stars, away from all these – twitching elven ears – we shall find our truth.”

 

 

We walk in silence at first. We both wish to cover the ground, to find ourselves somewhere to have this – conversation – where it will not be the gossip of many elves for many days. There is little to do here in Valinor, so elves – talk.

After a while, I turn to him and say,  
“My lord, I would think this is beyond the reach of all listeners – save perhaps those hares.” More long pointed ears to twitch, but these will, at least, not report it all back to any who will listen.

He smiles, and I wonder what he thinks is coming, but,  
“My lady – Calenmiril – truly – I have been slower than I hoped in coming. For long it seemed I would not come at all. I can only say – that I never stopped wishing to come. I have missed you so.”

I look at him, as he stands there, as he has the effrontery to stand there and say he is a little late.

“Not good enough, my dear lord,” I say, “Thranduil, you bastard, you said – wait for me – I will not be long – I wish only to see our youngest grown independent, to chose which son should rule – it is more than three thousand fucking years in Arda. More than two hundred years since that youngest son came here to die. What kept you?”

I am dearly tempted to slap his face. But – we have never been given to such anger, I cannot. It would break any hope of reconciliation.

He looks away, cold and proud, the Elvenking in all his glory. Then he looks back, and I see, somewhere in there, is my golden prince. Hidden so deep, he cannot find his way out, cannot find his way back to me.

“Where to begin?” he says, “Of which son would you hear? Our Thirthurun, our Thorodwar, both of them – untrusting of me, untrusted by the Silvans. Both of them clever – but not as clever as they think they are. Both of them – scheming yet not cunning enough to cover their schemes. Both of them – unable to rule even their own families. Both of them content in Lorien, content away from us, content with each other and their people.”

I shake my head, for remembering them as they were, hard it is to hear such an assessment.

“I do not know what went wrong,” he admits, “they never trusted me again after you left. I do not know why the Silvans hated them so – “

“I do,” I say, “at least, I heard one reason. Would you hear it?”

He inclines his head, and I speak again,  
“That they were unkind to our last-born. For whatever reason – they were unkind to him when he was small. And the Silvans knew. Why they did not tell you, I leave to you to judge. But they knew, and they could never trust our two again.”

He looks at me in horror, and I see him begin to reassess all those years,  
“Why would none have spoken? How were they unkind? What did they do to him? He was – a very timid child. But – no harm in him. Quiet. Hard to draw out. He – would never speak to me. I remember – he would forever be running after the most unsuitable people – always Silvans – wanting combing – he loved his trees, and his toy oliphaunt, and then later – his bow, his knives, and his group, and then – and then that dwarf. He never wanted anything from me. Not my words, not my counsel, not – not my lessons in swordskill. But – oh I suppose you know. You doubtless had more time with him than I ever managed.”

Now it is my turn to be shocked,  
“More time?” I say, “I had no time. I met him – once. Once when he knew me. And he – told me he wanted none of me. That I had abandoned him, abandoned you. His thoughts were all for you. I saw him die. That is all. I saw him fall apart at the death of his dwarf, shatter like dropped glass landing on a stone floor. It was all he could do to walk to the cave they buried the dwarf in, and follow him in to die himself.”

We are silent for a moment. 

I suppose he is wondering, as I am, whether that clinging, that desperate need was caused by us, by our neglect. 

I suppose he also wonders whether we would have done better to cling like that, rather than insist we were strong enough to be apart all these years.

But – before that – there were other questions.

“As for what they did – I do not know it all. But they – our middle sons – they never combed him. They left him uncombed. That is why he ‘ran after unsuitable people’, as you put it. Where were you? Why did you not comb him?”

He looks at me, and I see the horror growing,  
“Uncombed? I – I did not know. I swear I did not. Believe me – I would have – somehow – I would have combed him had I known. I thought – they had wives, sons – I thought – I took it for granted they would care for him. They are elves. How could they do this? I – I could not comb. Not without you. I – I could not.”

We are silent, as we contemplate the pain we inflicted on this tiny elfling.

All elflings need combing.

What did we do?

How could we be so cruel?

How could we have failed our own child so?

He sighs, and looks away, appearing to gaze into the distance – but I know he cannot see beyond the reach of a sword.

“To continue,” he says, still looking away, and it is as though he pulls the mantle of the Elven-king around himself again, for comfort against these unwelcome realisations, “you would know why I did not come sooner. I did not come, my lady, because there was a small matter of a kingdom. A people. Our people. I could not leave them war-torn and distressed. Then – then I waited until our son was grown – hoping he would be one I could leave as king. Then – there was the Necromancer, as we knew him, the evil power in the south of the Forest. And I had none I could trust. Then – there was a dragon. Then – there was a War, the ending of the Age. There was a son I thought fading. There was never anyone whom I could hand the crown. That son came here – I did not know his time had come – I would have sent word, had he seen fit to tell me he was coming. There was none to whom I could entrust the kingdom.”

I also look away, I do not want to see the pain in his face, for I find – it is still a dear face to me. The hurt in his voice is enough.

“Why could you not leave our son – our little leaf – why could you not leave him as king before all this – trouble began? If you had – he would never have met this dwarf – never have died.” And I see he too has wondered this, from the speed of his reply.

“Why? Because _he could not rule_. He had not aptitude for work, for rule, for order, for – any of it,” he sighs again, “he was a – very – elf-like elf. More Silvan than Sindar. He had the song of trees, the love of battle and of wine, all through him. He had no – no way of persuading, dominating others. No knowledge or grasp of tactics, though he was a fine warrior, when he chose. I loved him – though I think he never understood how much. But he was no king.”

“He ruled Ithilien,” I say, though I have wondered about this.

He smiles, thinly,  
“No, no my lady, he did not rule Ithilien. He was known as the ruler. He was named as one of the rulers of Aglarond, the dwarf-kingdom in another land of Men. He ruled neither. And was quite content. He did not, if truth be known, rule his dwarf, he did not even, I suspect, rule himself. His heart ruled him. As for Ithilien – a Silvan ruled there for many years, and now another. Our son – ruled nowhere.”

I am not surprised. I heard their words.

“Who, then?” I ask, “Who rules your kingdom now? Not one of our sons – so who? A Galadhrim?” and I daresay the distaste shows in my voice.

He laughs,  
“That sounded like my lady-love,” he says, and I scowl, “no, not a Galadhrim. A Silvan. The same Silvan who ruled Ithilien. The Silvan I sent our son to Imladris that he be parted from, for I feared they would take combing-vows. Caradhil Finbonaurion. You may remember him, or you may remember Finbonaur, or Thonneth, his mother.”

I think. 

“It is too long ago, I do not remember. But – I am glad it is not a Galadhrim. The dwarf – he said this – Caradhil – had been kind to our little leaf.”

He smiles again, and I wonder when he learnt to smile with so little joy or kindness, so little delight.

“Oh yes, indeed. Caradhil cared for him.”

There is silence again.

Enough of all this, I think, I do not really care about your kingdom, your elves. I care about our sons – and a most dreadful mess of them all we seem to have made between us. I care about – you.

Even as I think it, I understand that what I want – what I truly want – now I am with him – now I see him – is for things to be as they were. For the last – three thousand years – to be gone, never happened. If I could choose, that is what I would have. I would have us sail, taking our sons, and our sons’ children, before that battle. 

That I cannot have. But – we two – we are together now. And I wonder if there is a way to make things right. 

I cannot – quite – offer an apology – but – I do the best I can,  
“I suppose – our son – your son, as he called himself, not mine – he asked why I did not sail back to you. No. He told me to do so. Almost the last thing he said.”

He looks at me, and I wonder which part of that speech has surprised him so.

“My son? Yes, my lady, I suppose all his faults were my creation. Somehow. Even though I never meant it – always – always he heard the words I said in the most ill-favoured way. I think even Caradhil could not persuade him to listen. My son,” he swallows, “But – my lady – you did not sail back. So doubtless that piece of advice seemed as good to you as our other sons’ urging did to me, when they would have had me leave my kingdom and people to their tender mercies some two thousand years ago.”

“Indeed my lord – remind me what perils there were at that time – why exactly could you not leave then?” I am angry. I had forgotten how he never – never – could take an implied apology. 

He shrugs in silence.

“Or is it not for any to question the king?” I ask, bitterly, “were you expecting me to kneel to you, my lord? To be delighted with your presence? To not be so crass as to ask where you have been and why so long, and what has become of my sons, and – and above all – who have you combed and sung with these past ages?”

Silence again.

The elven-king stares away from me, cold and proud, and not one to answer such questions. But – something in the way he moves his head, something in the way he swallows, shows me that still – somewhere in there is my golden Thranduil.

And he hurts too.

“My lady,” he says, quiet and deadly, “I have neither combed nor sung in all these years. That you could ask such a thing, tells me you have had no such restraint. Were it possible for elves, I would wonder if you wished our marriage at an end. Since it is not, I shall merely take my leave of you, and seek your presence no more. I wish you such joy as you may be able to find with – whoever this is with whom you now share your comb.” he finishes with a little incline of the head.

Very courtly. He has remembered his Doriath manners.

I could cheerfully slap him.

Instead, as he turns to go, I reach out for his shoulder, and pull him back towards me,  
“Oropherion, do not you dare tell me what I have been doing. Do not you dare to assume anything about my life here. Do not you dare turn your back on me. Above all, do not you dare to assume I wish no more of you.”

He looks at me blankly. And I remember – for all his cunning, for all his reputation for strategy, in matters such as these, he ever needed all to be explained slowly,  
“I have missed you, you bloody fool,” I say, “I also have neither combed nor sung, if you would have it in more – stately – language. I am angry for our sons, angry for our tiny leaf, angry for all the years wasted apart – but I would not end our marriage if I could.” I pause for a moment, and then decide – yes, I will tell him. “I listened to our son. When he said you were cold, alone, when he said that was how you had ever been – I listened, and I ached for you. You who I knew as the warmest, most loving elf, you who I knew as the most devoted husband and father. You who I know never truly wished to rule.” He is looking away now, not wishing to share that pain again, and I understand. Oh how I understand. “My love, when he said ‘Go back, elves can sail east too,’ I so nearly did. I went – I went to the beach – I found his boat – his boat he was so proud of, that this Caradhil made. But – I fear our son had little sense, and his dwarf – doubtless more practical, as that race are, – was too tired to think. His boat – he left it where the waves washed it, where the sun shone on it, where the wind blew over it, the sand rubbed it, where it was carried by tides and dropped upon rocks. There was no boat worthy of the name by the time I found it. I suppose – it might have been possible to build another, but – I have not the skill, any more than you, my dearest, dearest love. And – before you say it – none here build boats, in these days. It is considered – displeasing to the Valar. And so I have waited for you, as you bade me do.” I pause again, then add, “I am not very patient though. I am minded to say you owe me a forfeit.”

Throughout all this, he has been watching me, his thoughts concealed behind his kingly mask, and I am, I own, afraid that I have come too far forward to meet him. But – this last – he was not expecting that. I am reminded of our son’s dwarf bidding him not to ‘look so like a fish’ and I wonder – briefly – whether to use the phrase, until my sense returns. He is not one to find it amusing.

“A forfeit?” he asks, wonderingly.

I smile, and – Valar be praised – at last, at last, there is an answering smile, as I say,  
“Yes. I seem to remember a forfeit once before. There are, sadly, no orcs to kill here, but – the joys of – forfeits – can still be felt, I think.”

Now he is smiling, and he says,  
“But that forfeit of which you speak, my lady wife, that was a wedding night forfeit. We are too long married for such things – surely – is our golden time not over?”

“Nay, my lord husband,” I answer, “if you are beside me once more, I think – I think our second golden time is perhaps about to begin.”

And – at last – we can stop this charade, this I said, you said, I did, you did, why, why, why, and do what I think we have both been longing to do all this time, only our pride has been in the way. At last, at last, his arms are round me, his hands on my ears, and mine on his, at last our mouths can meet, and hands can move slowly into hair, braids can be unbound, and – oh my love, you are returned to me.

“Comb with me?” he asks, speaking low and intimate into my ear, and I hear such a hesitancy in his voice as I think few would recognise, “comb with me, my lady-love, my Calenmiril? I – I am in sore need of your hands, and – I would dearly like to – comfort you, my beloved.”

I lean against him, and – he has not changed. Still he is strong and lithe as any new-forged fencing blade, still he is wonderful to run my hands over, still he – gasps a little with re-found need and desire as his body remembers mine.

“I have your comb safe,” I say, and he answers, as I have spent so long hoping that he one day would,  
“I have yours also.”

 

 

Our hands remember how to entwine, our bodies remember how to match our paces, as we walk again, for – it has been a long while. I would not have this reunion, this new learning of each other, be something hurried, nor something that any may stumble upon.

“Calenmiril,” he begins, hesitantly, and when, I wonder, when was my Thranduil last hesitant, “oh my lady, my Calenmiril, where are we going?”

“There is a glade,” I say, and I hear myself sounding – breathless – excited – and when, I wonder, when was I last giddy like this, “a glade. In these woods. Noldor – do not like woods. And your Silvans – they are south of here. It is a nice glade,” and I wonder when I lost the elven power of words, “you will like it, love. After all, you are the woodland king, are you not?”

His face freezes, and I realise I have said the worst thing I could.

“No,” he pauses, “no. My lady, I am no longer a king. I do not wish that title. No more. Do not ask that of me.”

I squeeze his hand in silence, and pull him onward. 

Damaged we both are, but – surely this will make things – not right, we can never be right again after what we have done – but – better. Scarred but healed. 

Like my poor love.

 

The glade is as I remember it. But – in the walking, we have become – silent again. 

I know not what I had expected. I suppose – that we would laugh, run, stumble, trip, fall into each other.

No.

Those days, it seems, are long gone.

My poor Thranduil, my golden laughing prince is gone. I ache for him, for all the cares he has carried so long he cannot put them down.

“Beloved lord,” I say, “sit here. With me. I – I would comb you. I would have your hands in my hair.”

He sighs, and although he sits, and I beside him, he still looks – sad. Not meeting my eyes, he plays with the comb in his hands. Still looking at the ground, he speaks again,  
“I find – I do not know how. It has been so long. I have not – been used to relaxing.”

And that is the saddest thing of all.

I kneel up, and begin to work my comb through his hair. Gently, not wanting to ask too much, but – oh he is so tense. My poor love. I too am out of practice, I find. It takes a while to fall into the rhythm I know he likes, the pace, the touch of hand on ears. But – he is still my love. Whatever hurts we bear, and we do, whatever we have each done, and there is so much that has been done ill by us both, but – he is my love, my husband, and I am his. By the grace of the Valar, I find the words begin to come to me,

“Oh my love, love of my days, delight of my nights, know you are with me again now. It is not needful any longer to be strong, to be alone. I am here, oh my Thranduil, feel my hands on you, feel me comb you, I am here, we are together again now. Oh my Thranduil, oh my most beloved, my husband, rest, take comfort in my love. I have missed you so, longed for you so, and now you are here. I love you. You are not king, you are not prince, you are not father, or leader, or any of that now. You are you, and I am I. That is all. Let my hands take the cares away, feel my love for you. I love you so. I am your Calenmiril, and we are together again,” I should go on, I know I should, but – I find I am – blinking away tears, my hands trembling, and he – he is turning to me, his hands beginning to reach for my hair, and I see – I see there are tears in his eyes – his poor eyes – also – and – he touches so gently, as though – as though he does not quite believe this is happening at last. I stay still, as his hands play with my hair, as he touches at my ear-tips, and – and he stills and sighs. He rests his head against mine, and – my hands are on his ears, his poor ears, and – suddenly I know what I need to say, “let it go,” I whisper, “let the glamour go. For once. For now. Summon it back later, if you will. But – I care not.”

He breathes, and for a long moment we are still, then,  
“I know not – if I can. It has been so long, so long part of me. I – do not look.”

“Do not look?” I say, “oh my beloved fool, I know what lies under that. I was there, remember, I was there the day the dragon came down. The day so many died. The day your beauty burnt to save us both. And had I not been, did I not know, it matters to me no more than – than my cowardice, my foolishness did to you.”

There. 

I have said it.

And – and in his shock, his glamour slips away unnoticed. 

His hands card through my hair, as he tilts my head to look at him. And – I am so blinded by my own tears, my regret, I hardly see the scars.

“Cowardice?” he asks, “there are many words for what happened to you. Many. Many I have spoken in the long years – but – cowardice? Never that. Of all the elves I have known, you would be the last of whom I would use that word. You did not run, you were not held still in horror as our son died. You held him. You spoke words of comfort to him. Your – your hands in his hair, on his ears, were the last things he felt. You gave him that, you eased his way. I could not. I was frozen. Afraid. And then – when I would have fled, fled into a hopeless battle and lost us all – you it was that made that retreat a valiant homecoming. You it was that gave our warriors – so few – so few there were – some pride in their achievements. You that made me take up the kingship. And you were right. You that agreed to dare another child. You that bore it – and when that – that was too much – that was not cowardice. Not foolishness. Ill-luck. That is all. It – happens.”

I shake my head, for this is too much,  
“It happened to us. Not to others – “ I would go on, but he breaks in again,

“It happens to others. More – more to mortals. Because – most elves – are more fortunate. Most elves live not in a Forest turning blacker every day. Most elves – and yes, perhaps foolish we were in this – most elves are not thoughtless enough to have a child when they are not ready. To forget to ask for a daughter if they cannot cope with another son. Most elves can rely on their husbands to think of such things. I was at fault. And I lost you. And – I have been so afraid that I would come here at last – and find you gone.”

“You bade me wait,” I say again. I do not know how to thank him for his words, but – it means so much to me that he is not angered, he does not blame me. Whether he is right, I am not sure. But – that he believes it – that is enough for now.

Pressed close as we are, I can feel his huff of – laughter? I look, and I realise – somewhere in that ruined face – he is raising one brow,  
“Bade you wait – and when – when, my love, did you do as I bid you? Too much time with Noldor,” he waits, with that perfect timing, “Elrond might bid his wife do something. I – I only ever presumed to ask.”

I think I am going to smile, but – I find I am weeping. My mouth twists, and – and I can feel he is shaking too.

“I love you,”  
“Love you so,”  
“Need you,”  
“Want you,”

And we are pulling at each other, clinging, and kissing, kissing as though – as though we have not kissed for more than an Age of the World. His hands mirror mine, as we do not know whether to touch ears, to hold, to pull at clothes, to run through hair, or just – just to clutch at each other. There is salt in our kisses, we are crying all the tears we have not let ourselves shed, for the waste, the pain, the idiocy of us both, and yet – and yet this is still so sweet. 

So sweet, to let hands wander at last, to relearn that body, to find – and for an instant, I remember our poor son, so patient with that aged dwarf, and I realise how lucky elves are – as we find – there are no changes. His body is as I remember him. The scars are there, but no more, no worse than they ever were. 

Indeed, I can barely remember him without them.

“Oh my Calenmiril,” he breathes, “oh tell me – tell me this is not some reverie. Tell me this is real at last.”

“No reverie, my love,” I say, “if it were – oh if it were – you would not be stopping now to ask.”

I feel his smile against my skin, and then – then he rolls away onto his side – and – we look at each other. Close enough that he can see, far enough apart that we admit the distance between us. At the same moment, we reach out, and our hands are mirroring again, as we need to touch, to stroke, to – to be assured that this is as it was.

And – oh it is. For an instant, I wonder what he is thinking, then I realise – he is tracing over my body the patterns of jewels I once wore. Dearly he loved to see me so bedecked.

“Do you know,” he says, “I forgot them. They are stored away safely. I wonder what will become of them – “

“I do not care,” I answer, “I have other thoughts.” And I let my hand stray down, down to where – yes – he is hard and smooth – and he fits into my hand as well as ever – as perfect as he ever was.

He gasps, and leans into me, his mouth on mine, and then – there is no need for speech – as his hands begin to explore more urgently, his fingers stroking my breasts, even as with one hand I am pulling him onto me, opening my legs for him, guiding him. And his hand moves down me, and then – then he is touching me, stroking me there, just there – where I have missed him so – and all the time we kiss, tongues deep in each other, playing, relearning this taste, this feel. No words needed, we each know how the other likes to be touched, to be stroked, until I am bucking under him, falling into him once more, and my hand digs into his neck, and he – he is moving in my hand, and oh I want him – I want more, but this time with him inside me – but he moves his head, breaks the kiss, and I blink, surprised, and he whispers,

“No more elflings, oh Valar, no more – please no more?”

And I realise he is needing to hear me say it, and – it is no hardship to me.

“No more,” I agree, “Valar forbid. This – this is for us. I want you, my Thranduil, yes?”

And then we are kissing again, kissing as though we can never have enough, and oh – how have I gone without this pleasure for so long? He is in me, and I am holding his hips, guiding him, setting the pace, and it is so good to have him there, inside, where he ought to be, and – and then I hold him still – and he remembers – he knows what I want – he stays quite, quite still as I move against him, under him, again and again until – yes – oh my love – oh yes, oh yes, I am clinging to him as he laughs into my shoulder. 

“Love you,” I say, and he moves, once, twice, and then stills again, letting me hold and cling and move as I hear my voice rise higher and higher again.

“Love you too,” he answers, and – and oh Elbereth, he is so good, so bloody good – I had forgotten – he can keep this going for hours – and – and I am laughing now, kissing at any part of him I can reach, and then, oh then – again, and again. Until – until I am incoherent with pleasure, and then – then he begins to move, and that – that is as good – and I arch under him, responding to his movement, his need, and then – then his head is thrown back, and I – how I love him as he says my name, as I feel him thrust so hard one final time, and then – then we are wrapped in each other, hair and tears and legs and arms and hands all mingling, somewhere between joy at being together and sorrow for all the years apart.

 

After a while, I know not how long, he moves, and we lie, on our sides once more, facing each other, smiling.

“So,” he says.

I wait, brow raised,

“So?” I ask.

“So,” he begins again, “so that – that is as it was. I wondered. I began to wonder – if I had dreamed it. If – if nothing could truly be so good. I missed you. I – I am sorry about the jewels. I left in a hurry – I had begun to believe I could never come here – and then – to find there was one to whom I could leave the kingdom – I did not really think. I am sorry.”

As ever, I think, the thing he has apologised most for, is the thing that matters least. That is how he is. An age of the world is not, it seems, enough to change that.

I shrug,  
“I daresay this Silvan will have a wife one day. She is welcome to them.”

Something crosses his face, something I know not how to read. He shakes his head slowly,

“No. No, Caradhil will not marry. He has a daughter though, she rules Ithilien. Maybe she will be glad of them,” he shrugs as he sees my confusion – how can this be – how can there be a daughter if there is no wife? What kind of elf is this – what has been changing in the Forest? But – I do not care – and then my beloved’s face quirks, “no, in truth, if I know my Caradhil, and I do, I know all my elves so well, he will not take your jewels for his own. Either they will come to us, entrusted to some Silvan passing West, or – or he will use them to benefit the kingdom. Sold perhaps, or shaped into something all can value.” He laughs, “He is a most peculiar elf. Enough. I have you. We – we have made so many mistakes, yet – we have each other again.”

“Indeed,” I say, “in one thing we have not failed. We may have been atrocious parents, one son killed, two estranged, and one – one also dead – but – we are together again. And this love does not change. But, my lord husband, there are many years of history I would hear. If there is any of it that is not too painful.”

He smiles,  
“Oh, some of it will bear telling. Some you may even find amusing. And I would hear of your time among Noldor. I am confident some of that will be amusing. But – if this is indeed a second golden time – and I think you are right – then – I owe you a forfeit, my most beloved lady wife. And – and it is one I am very eager indeed to pay.”

I look him up and down, and I too smile,  
“So you are, my love, so you are,” I say. And – perhaps this land is at last blessed for me, now my love is here.

**Author's Note:**

> mention of various original characters - all in my other Legolas/Gimli stories. sorry. shouldn't matter too much if you haven't read those!


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